Please Shut Up
by Ita-Neo
Summary: Graham is sick, and Billy is feeling slightly homicidal.


**A/N:** I haven't written fanfiction in a long time, so I made a quick fic. Basically what Graham and Billy would be like if Gundam 00 were a comedy and Graham had the flu. Mild crack, no plotline, no pairings.

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><p><em>Please Shut Up<em>

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><p>"This is an utter disgrace."<p>

"Don't be like that now."

"To be taken down by this wretched unidentifiable disease."

"It's the flu."

"While my men are risking their lives fighting against Gundam-"

"They're on break today."

"Gundam..."

"Oh god, not that again."

"GUNDAM!"

"Graham, shut up. Please."

Something faintly hurt flashes across Graham's flu ravaged features; a heartbreaking image, if Billy hasn't been so irreversibly sick of his Gundam tirades to the point of homicide. He knows his irritation isn't quite the fairest in the world. Graham is a hopeless romantic, more emphasis on the hopeless than anything else. Nevertheless it's a part of his charm, the only man in the Union military who could spout Shakespearean lines and Greek prose with remarkably apt situational timing. While blowing up mobile suits. Without sounding like a total moron.

That does not, however, mean that Graham isn't a lunatic.

(And he still sometimes sounds like a moron).

Which in turn means that apparently he's of the opinion that sheer willpower (read: stupidity) and devotion to his job (read: workaholic) is enough to overpower the raging sickness that had left him bedridden and miserable, while Celestial Being wreaks its havoc masquerading as crusades of peace across the world.

Which then in turn means that once Graham realizes that no, sheer willpower and job devotion will not get him anywhere but the hospital, he (not) understandably starts to go a little stir-crazy.

Which ultimately means Billy taking time out of his work in order to make sure the man doesn't go and commit seppuku while no one was looking.

Billy likes Graham very much, for his charisma and his loyalty, the amusing quirks of his personality and that unyielding drive to live a full life in the world of a soldier and its destruction and its hatred and its death. But then there are times, like now, when Graham loses all semblance of maturity, and Billy really wishes the zealous (read: completely and utterly insane) Overflag captain would just shut up.

"I'm going to die in a bed."

"It's just a flu, Graham. You're not going to die."

"This is pathetic! Unheard of-!" Graham's voice disintegrates, giving away to a stream of hacking coughs as he hurried clamped a wad of tissue over his mouth. The fit fades gradually, and when he continues, his voice is hoarse but frustrated. "To die in a bed is about the most unmanly death you can have!"

"One, plenty of people die in beds. In fact, some would prefer to die in beds. Two, the doctor won't let you leave your quarters. So your only other option is the bathroom."

"What? No! Who the hell dies in a bathroom?"

Also plenty of people, Billy decides not to elaborate. He offers Graham a glass of water, which he accepts gratefully and chokes on promptly for no legitimate reason.

"Is there some tall, seaside cliff around here that I can fall from epically?"

"We're in Nevada."

"I want dramatic background music playing when I die."

"You've been watching soap operas, haven't you?"

Graham's tone is wistful. "You think I can somehow fall slow-motion?"

Yep. Soap operas. Billy makes a mental note to disable the T.V. when Graham isn't looking. Or maybe he'll just smash the screen. Stress relief. You know how it is. "You're out of tissues." He notes mildly, furrowing his brows in distaste at the pile of tissue wads flooding the wastebasket next to him.

With a frown, Graham rubs his nose, the tip bright red and chaffing. His overall complexion is quite terrible, something of a cross between crying and insomnia and a hairstyle modeled after a bird's nest. Bottles and bottles of cough medicine prove to be inadequate when dealing with whatever was making him gag infectious microorganisms all over the area's breathing space.

"You don't have to stay here." Graham mumbles, head hanging. "You shouldn't be away from your work for too long because of me." He's the very picture of a proud and (insane) brave pilot commander gone horribly wretched, and even Billy's heart softens as he paws bemusedly at his disheveled blond curls, a man unsure of what exactly to do with himself.

(He could go to sleep, for once).

Sighing, Billy pushes himself up from his chair. "I'll go buy some more tissues." He says, heading for the door. "Please don't commit seppuku while I'm gone."

"But...my seppuku..."

"I'll leave you a kitchen knife, if you want."

"You're not supposed to do it with a kitchen knife." Was the half-hearted protest.

"That's the point." Billy says. "So once you're better, you're free to go buy a Japanese mask, gain a Bushido persona, and go rampage through the base in some medieval Japanese outfit with bad color schemes. But until then, I'd really appreciate it if you didn't commit seppuku."

Years from now, Billy is going to regret ever making that statement. But as of the present, that is neither here nor there.

Graham is predictably sullen, as are all noble warriors with the mentality of a ten year old when denied the privileged right to shove a knife in his guts. "...my seppuku."

"Don't make me tie you to the bed."

"That sounds scandalous."

Billy politely dumps the water jug over Graham's head.

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><p><strong>End note:<strong> Huh. Well, that was utterly pointless. I love Graham, but he is undeniably insane. I wonder how many people are even left in this fandom. Call me an internet hermit, but I've never personally met another Gundam 00 fan. Sigh.


End file.
